sirensong
by hiyoris-scarf
Summary: The woman in front of him smiles, the curve of her lips serpentine. There is a snake, buried deep in the subtle garden of familiar face, voice, eyes. "What a pretty name," she says. He shivers. It's Winry's voice, but there's something else there too. Something poisonous, and deceptively lovely. "Winry Rockbell. That's who this body belonged to."


**A/N: well! this smut-centric AU quickly became far, faaaarrrr more complicated than I was willing to commit to. Anyway, my internal dialogue while writing this whole thing was pretty much "you're going to hell and you'll goddamn LIKE IT," so I hope it's worth it.**

 **takes place in a pretty universe where sex isn't messy AT ALL. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯**

* * *

Edward Elric crosses his arms, leaning against the southern wall of Brigadier General Mustang's modest office in Western Command. The other faces gathered in the room are drawn, gray with exhaustion and worry. Mustang's A-team, as well as a few other select outsiders, are the only ones filling the room. This has been their third meeting, and the ritualistic element of it—half-secretive, half awfully familiar—will only increase with time.

Mustang settles the first round of panicked questions, holding up a hand for silence.

"The New Academy," he pronounces. The silence following his words is thick. No one has a response.

"That's the name of the group we're dealing with here," he explains, taking a file that Captain Hawkeye dutifully hands him.

He reads aloud a few excerpts from it, outlining the new whisper of insurgency that has sprung up in the underbellies of scattered military powerhouses in western and southern Amestris. Those involved, operating under the mundane appellation, "the New Academy," have taken their cue from the (now-unseated) Amestrian military officials.

"Immortality, even without the philosopher's stone, still calls to those corrupted by avarice—especially now, while the power vacuum in the military is still so great," Mustang says, all business as he hands Hawkeye back the thick folder.

"And, thanks to Alphonse—" he nods to the younger Elric "—we know that they've figured out how to fuse alchemy and alkahestry to create the God Splinter."

"Yeah," Ed cuts in when Mustang pauses. "About that. What exactly the _hell_ is a 'god splinter'?"

: : :

The God Splinter. The newest, most fashionable term for immortality. Not a philosopher's stone—not quite—but a new, experimental breakthrough that straddles the razor's edge between questionable ethics and outright evil.

"Instead of using human souls as a sort of 'battery,' like the philosopher's stone does, the Splinter draws energy from the same source as regular alchemy and alkahestry," Alphonse says, illustrating simple diagrams on the board in Mustang's office. Ed can't stop himself from peering over his brother's shoulder, fascinated by the lines taking shape in chalk.

"Alchemical energy from tectonic movement, and alkahestrical energy from the chi-flow—the Dragon's Pulse."

The chalk scratches and chitters on the board. Al pauses.

"This is where it gets a little, ah…shall we say…morally bankrupt? The process is called the God Splinter because it fractures the alchemical integrity of the location where it's being performed. And because the energy requires an explosive, delayed reaction, it has to be stored somewhere stable—somewhere self-regenerative. So, that means…"

Al's voice peters out as he finishes the last diagram, and the tension in the room pulls taut like a noose. Ed finishes his brother's sentence.

"It has to be stored inside a human."

: : :

About a month later, they learn about the human experiments.

" _Why_ , though?" Havoc asks, putting his cigarette out in an ash tray that he's already three-quarters filled during their hour-long meeting. "If these people saw the immortal army, they wouldn't want to even _attempt_ creating an artificial person."

Shou Tucker's face pops into Ed's mind, and he fights back disgust. It's easy to hope that people will recognize their limits, but sometimes it's too much to ask.

"They aren't working with dummies," Mustang clarifies. "These are more like the old homunculi that we fought. My information says the New Academy's scientists have been able to strain out distinct traits using the medicinal qualities of alkahestry."

"Traits…?" Hawkeye asks from behind the desk.

"Driving impulses," he says, turning to her. "One-track personalities, if you will. Much like Father's version of Wrath, Envy, Sloth, et cetera."

Ed lets out a slow breath. More homunculi. More immortal adversaries. It's like he's being punished for the same crime over, and over, and over again.

"There's more," Mustang says, after a loaded pause.

 _Oh, excellent._ The voice in Ed's head is tartly sarcastic. _That wasn't even all the good news._

"The New Academy has already begun picking targets for this new experiment. They are…specifically interested in those who are close to military officials. Everyone in this room who holds rank should take measures to get your families into protective custody."

The general's eyes flick to Hawkeye, who's organizing papers behind his desk. Some of them will have an easier time than others keeping track of their loved ones.

Ed can't help thinking of Winry, blissfully ignorant in her workshop in Rush Valley, and Pinako, all alone in the yellow house in Resembool.

Cornering Mustang after the meeting, Ed is cut off before he can speak.

"I highly doubt they're in danger, Ed," says Mustang. "The New Academy seems more interested in those directly associated with the coup against the Fuhrer, and you've made it abundantly clear that you and Al had nothing at stake politically in the events at Central. Of course, if you want to move Miss Rockbell and her grandmother to a military safe house until we capture the brains of the Academy's operation, I'll make sure the right doors open for you."

Ed thinks. He thinks about—and tries not to recoil from—the look on Pinako Rockbell's face when he tells her she'll have to close up shop and move out of her hometown, to where the military can keep her under scrutiny. He thinks about Winry's dedication to her work, her ferocious desire to make something of herself, and her commitment to helping others while doing it. He thinks about locking that kind of independence and resolve away for as long as it takes to bring down the Academy; he thinks about demanding that she put her passions on hold because of a vague worry that may never come to pass.

He can't make her lose any more than she already has, just because of him.

: : :

Mustang gives Ed a congratulatory phone call a few weeks after the team's last meeting.

"For someone who claims not to work for the military, you've done a lot to help put quite a few of the New Academy's leading minds into our cells."

The general's voice travels in grainy distortion over the line. Ed is sequestered in one of the more backwoods corners of the country, tracking down yet another elusive scientist. Many had flown the coop the second word got out that the military was full-bore pursuing the God Splinter and its creators.

"Don't get used to it," he says grumpily, rubbing the back of his neck where it's developing a pretty severe twinge.

Mustang chuckles.

"Noted. And how's your traveling companion holding up?"

Ed had left Falman snoring in their room at the tiny hostel, and tells Mustang as much.

"All right. Call it a day, Fullmetal."

"I am _not_ the Full—"

"I know, I know. Go to bed, Ed."

Mustang hangs up on him, still laughing, and Ed slams the phone into the receiver with a growl.

Leaning against the glass, he kneads his temples with both hands, and tries to push all the aches in his body to the back of his consciousness. No time for discomforts. As far as privacy and downtime goes, this payphone booth is as good as it's going to get for the foreseeable future—as long as he keeps letting Mustang boss him around. Despite what Winry and Al have tried to train out of him, Ed still leads an all-or-nothing kind of existence.

The phone rings again, and Ed nearly jumps out of his skin.

Who would be placing a call to a payphone at past midnight, trying to reach Armpit-of-Nowhere, southern Amestris? He picks up.

"Oh, thank goodness," says Al's voice, tight with something that veers uncomfortably close to desperation. Ed's stomach plummets into his shoes.

"The general said he'd reached you here last. I just hoped you'd still pick up."

Ed's mind rushes through every possible emergency, from Drachman terrorists, to the descent of another zombie hoard upon a helpless city.

"Al. What happened?"

His brother starts talking. And Ed finds out: it's worse.

: : :

Ed arrives in Rush Valley the next day. Well, technically it's two a.m. the day after, but he doesn't bother calculating it. He heads straight for one of the seedier dive bars, its "OPEN" sign a blinking neon eyesore against the town's dry, dark backstreets.

He hurls himself into one of the booths at the back.

"Would someone like to give me a goddamn explanation?"

The first words out of his mouth jangle like broken glass. The two others in the booth look at each other, then regard him with concern. Al closes his eyes, pinches the bridge of his nose like he's searching for patience.

"There wasn't any reason for you to abandon ship, Ed. I told you the captain and I had everything under control here."

Ed grits his teeth, trying not to bite his own brother's head off. Al doesn't seem to realize he couldn't stay—there was absolutely no chance he would have been able to live with himself if he hadn't come here.

"Ed," Hawkeye says, halfway reaching across the booth. She lets her hand fall just short of his wrist when Ed jerks it back.

"It looks conspicuous to have you show up here along with Al and me. We get it, but it would have been wiser for you to let _us_ handle the situation."

Ed's jaw clicks as his teeth grind together. Neither of them seem to understand. Hawkeye is trying to treat him with sympathy, when all he wants to do is to lead a rampage. And he can tell by looking at his brother that even though Al's every bit as worried, he won't let passion interfere with logic. _The effects of Xingese diplomacy,_ Ed considers bitterly.

"The New Academy went after Winry because of _me_ ," he says, forcing himself to say the words, to take responsibility. "And knowing that, you just expected me to stay in the South? I already know what you're going to say—that my involvement is exactly what they want. Well, frankly, I don't care. They'll have to face me themselves. But you two—please don't talk to me like I'm an idiot!"

His fist meets the tabletop with more force than necessary, and the few other patrons of the establishment shift and whisper.

"Brother," Al mutters, glancing around nervously.

Hawkeye steps in, waving away the bar's stern-looking proprietor with a few quiet words.

"We _do_ understand your anxiety, Ed, and we don't think you're an idiot. We also thought it would be unreasonable to ask you to stay at your post after hearing about Winry. However…the general thought it was still worth a shot."

Hawkeye's shoulders straighten, and Ed realizes that Mustang had already prepared for this; he had anticipated Ed's every move. _Just like he prepares for everything._

Hawkeye slips a piece of paper between two of his curved fingers where they rest on the scratched tabletop.

"Here's the address we were able to intercept," she says, even more quietly. On his other side, Ed notices that Al keeps an eye outside the booth, ready to sound the alert if anyone suspicious walks over.

"Whoever's still hiding out at this location most likely has the latest information on where Winry's been taken."

Ed reaches hesitantly for the piece of paper; his fingers close around it like it's the only thing anchoring him to the ground.

"Midnight tomorrow," Al says, his voice low and tense as a trigger finger.

: : :

The Rush Valley address yields nothing, its empty doorways and windows proving to be harbingers for the next eight months of fruitless searching; dead end after dead end crops up in front of them. The New Academy becomes a proverbial hydra sprouting new heads, each one feeding them bad information and false leads. No matter how many operatives sit in the holding cells at Western Command, their leadership never comes to light.

And neither does Winry Rockbell.

Ed tells Pinako. This phone call is the hardest he can ever remember; still, he's much closer to shedding tears than the hardbitten woman on the other end of the line.

"I'll keep looking for her," he says, before ending the conversation.

There's a short pause, and the smallness of Pinako's voice nearly breaks him.

"I know you will, Ed."

He hears the words she doesn't say: that she's watched far too many people walk away from her, only to never come back.

He keeps his promise. He looks for Winry, but it's difficult when every one of his leads vanishes out from between his fingers.

Even though he's not technically supposed to have access to military resources, everyone looks away. He suspects Mustang's fingerprints on that one, but there's no time or energy for gratitude.

Only vaguely does Ed remember that he's ostensibly chasing the New Academy: the shadow organization growing more powerful every day. He goes to sleep every night with only one face burning behind his eyelids, one voice ringing in his ears, and he comes as close to praying as he's ever gotten.

 _Let me find her. Please god, Truth, whatever the hell you are—let me find her._

: : :

So here he is, tucked away in another remote town, this one near the border of Creta.

Ed tries to settle into his hard-floored little hotel room. He sits on the edge of the thin mattress and checks his pocket notebook, dimly realizing that he's exactly one hundred days into his mission. Most would have called it a wild goose chase a long time ago.

The barest trace of Winry would be enough, but there hasn't been a single sighting—not even a stray blonde hair.

However, Ed can't allow himself to think that way. He can't buy into the heartbroken resignation that Pinako and Al have begun to show signs of. He can't help getting angry after Mustang suggests over another phone call that he should consider taking a break, just to preserve his energy. Or his sanity.

Winry put him back together when he was at his lowest. So what, exactly, does that make him if he abandons her?

Ed's never been easily tempted by alcohol, but tonight's hundred-day anniversary calls for some sort of macabre celebration. He's finally realizing just how shabby this little hotel room is, how evil-smelling the eternal smoke that hangs over this little coal town.

His stomach is empty, so the cheap whiskey hits his system rough and instant. Not enough to cause sickness, but enough to pleasantly deaden his nerves.

Breaking the hollow silence comes a soft knock on the door of his dingy room.

The sound jerks him out of his exhausted stupefaction. Ed sets the liquor bottle on the floor, pushing it a little between the bedside table and the mattress.

"Who is it?"

No answer comes from outside the door: only blank, waiting silence. In Ed's experience, that's rarely a good sign.

He gets up, twitching the curtain slightly away from the streaked square of glass that passes for a window. Its wavering transparency shows him nothing—except that there don't seem to be any new cars outside the motel. Still, whether or not the knocking stranger is friendly, they already know someone is in here.

Without giving himself time to feed his paranoia, Ed strides over to the door, throwing it open on its creaky, rust-coated hinges.

: : :

For a few wild seconds, Ed thinks there may have been more in that bottle than just the liquor.

Because there's no way Winry Rockbell can be standing here, at midnight, on the doorstep of his rundown little motel room.

It isn't possible, because he's scoured the continent for her. She isn't supposed to be the one finding him.

: : :

It is her.

It is Winry, and yet there are things about her that are…wrong.

For example, the Winry Rockbell Ed knew had never worn lipstick this color—the color of pooling blood against chalk-white skin. Winry had always kept her hair tied back away from her face; she had never let it pour loose and liquid over her shoulders, catching every stray shard of light cast by the flickering little lamp. Winry had worn comfortable, practical clothing—not whatever _this_ is, that slinks and plunges and barely has enough fabric to hold itself together on her body.

And, above all, Winry's skin had been unmarked; there hadn't been a shape carved on the inside of her wrist. Ed recognizes the coiling sigil, and acid rises in his throat.

"Winry."

The fact that he hasn't seen her in months—that he has thought, for what feels like an aching eternity, that he might never see her again—makes her reappearance all the more shocking. Her name surfaces in his mind as a statement, rather than a question.

Because behind the base elements that are so very, very different, it _is_ her.

The woman in front of him smiles, the curve of her lips serpentine. There is a snake, buried deep in the subtle garden of familiar face, voice, eyes.

"What a pretty name," she says.

He shivers. It's Winry's voice, but there's something else there too. Something poisonous, and deceptively lovely.

"Winry Rockbell. That's who this body belonged to."

The mixture of distant speculation and disdain in her tone sets his teeth on edge—as does the use of the past tense. The stranger inside Winry's skin notices the shift in his expression. The corner of her mouth lifts, transforming her smile into a knowing smirk. Ed's jaw clenches; the expression doesn't look at home on her face.

But even so, he can't help noticing the way her hips swing as she walks toward him, or the sinuous curve of her smooth wrist as she lifts a hand toward him in greeting. The round darkness, deeper than ink, ripples on the whiteness of her forearm. It's an ouroboros, the creature that devours itself and lives forever.

"I suppose I should apologize for not introducing myself."

She takes his hand, which still hangs limply at his side. Her palm is hot, hotter than a human palm should be, and tingles against his with live, crimson electricity.

"My name is Lust."

: : :

"Lust," Ed repeats, dumbly.

Her hand is silk and ivory against his. Something about her touch chases every rational thought out of his mind faster than his logic can stumble drunkenly after it.

"And you are, or—should I say _were_ "—a gentle, mesmerizing giggle at her error—"the Fullmetal Alchemist."

His thoughts tumble over themselves, trying to make sense of the Winry he remembers in comparison to the Winry whose pale, burning palm rests in his.

"You're not inviting me in?" she asks, purring the question.

She takes a single step toward him, her movements filled with predatory grace. Still speechless, Ed backs away from the door, watching her as she nudges it closed behind her. Inside the dimly lit hotel room, her skin seems even more luminous, her eyes alive with a deeper spark than what could be strictly considered human.

"Hey," he says, thickly. His tongue is heavy. "Hey…what are you doing?"

Lust doesn't hesitate, but walks straight toward him. Her heels meet the thin carpet with muted clicks. Before he knows what's happening, Ed's nose is inches from her face, and even though he keeps backing away, the space in the room is cramped. She corners him against the wall on the opposite end of the room.

The bare centimeter between their bodies hums like a taut, metal cord.

Lust—Winry— _whichever_ —looks up into his eyes. Though he is caught off guard by her proximity, she doesn't appear bothered.

"I'm only trying to understand," she says, curiously.

: : :

Ed isn't sure if it's his pounding blood that creates the rushing in his ears.

She doesn't wait for him to answer, but keeps speaking. The quiet intensity of her voice is magnetic; it lures his attention back to her words.

"Her memories weren't erased, you know. I saw…so much of her life."

If he could locate his voice, Ed would demand an explanation. If Winry's memories are there, then part of her must be too…right?

Her hand travels up his arm, the fine hairs on his skin shivering at her bare touch. He swallows.

"Winry," he says, his voice coming out hoarse and gravelly. "Winry, I know you're still there."

Lust laughs: it's a low chuckle that falls like drops of wine from her lips.

"How pleasant! You really think she can still hear you?"

Her fingers tighten around his arm, and he jerks away. His elbow connects with a thud against the wall.

"She wouldn't just disappear like that," he says sharply, breaking out of his stupor. "I know Winry Rockbell, and I know that she wouldn't let something like you overpower her."

Lust's eyes widen in innocent surprise.

"Something—like _me?_ How rude. I thought you would be kinder, especially because of my appearance."

Ed grits his teeth.

"And why the hell would you think that?! All I know is that you've locked Winry up somehow—somewhere, inside her own mind—"

Lust laughs again; not softly this time, but ringing—merry. A thoroughly _Winry_ laugh, that throws Ed like a punch to the gut.

"I never said she was imprisoned. Winry's here. She and I, we're the same creation. I was sifted out of her personality—the purification and personification of her needs and desires. You are talking to Winry Rockbell. All that's left of her."

Ed is no match for her; he's realizing this now. She comes close—too close—her lips are near enough to his ear for him to feel her breath in his hair.

"Which is exactly why I'm here, with you. She had a _strong_ attachment to you, Edward Elric."

The entire world is half-lidded, moon-pale eyes, and hair all down and tumbling—falling soft and gold over bare shoulders—and a mouth that turns just his name into something he'd kill to hear repeated.

: : :

Ed grasps at straws. Through the hazy tumble of his thoughts, he latches on to a memory that he thinks might still resonate with Winry.

"H-hey, remember when you, Al, and I had that snowball fight during the last big snowstorm in Resembool? You nearly cried when we used alchemy to make a snowman."

She brings both hands up to his face, tracing her long-nailed fingers along his jawline.

"Edward, Edward—I _remember_ ," she breathes. "I remember that I was always afraid of your power, and your potential. It frightened me…because I thought it might take you away from me."

His breath catches—partly because of the scorching electricity that leaps between them, and partly because he isn't prepared for the sudden unveiling of his childhood friend's deepest secrets.

It doesn't feel right. He shouldn't be hearing this, not unless it's really Winry telling him.

"She's stronger than that. She always has been."

Ed doesn't imagine what happens next. Her touch on his face, as poised as the claws of a jungle cat, falters slightly. He takes advantage of it.

"Winry—you know when I kept telling you what a tomboy you were, and at first you tried to cave in my skull? Then you got used to it, and just started insulting me back. You still kept after me with that wrench, though. You don't happen to have one on you right now, do you?"

Lust's eyebrows quirk upward in confusion. Ed witnesses the strangest look on her face—he's suddenly reminded of the body shared by Ling and Greed; he recognizes the bizarre conflict of watching two sides of a soul fight for supremacy.

She brings a hand up to her face, holding two fingers to one temple. She mouths something; Ed doesn't hear what it is. He keeps talking—anything to spark something in her of the old Winry.

And, predictably, his mind generates the most self-destructive thing imaginable.

"You know, I haven't had any time to take care of my leg during this trip. It's in really shit condition, even for me."

Lust looks at him.

Except it's not Lust now, but Winry—fully and completely. And she's fucking furious.

With a deep inhale, she unleashes on him.

"Edward Elric, you will _not_ treat my automail like it's a tin bucket you can haul around at the end of a string! It takes five damn minutes to take care of it daily, so it's not like you can't spare the precious time—"

: : :

Ed's face splits in a wide grin. Winry's hand flies to cover her mouth, her expression appalled.

"There you are," he says, victoriously.

Her interval of uncertainty stretches into several silent seconds. He doesn't know if the homunculus will push its way back into control, but at least Lust's facade of bravado is shattered.

Winry meets Ed's eyes at last, and he sees something breakable—very fragile—behind them. He expects her to back away from him, but she doesn't. Her breathing speeds up as her eyes drop from his; she stares right below his chin, and he feels a pinprick of heat there.

She's so close, closer—closer than he could ever fight, or retreat from, or understand.

: : :

"Winry," he breathes, and she doesn't object to the name—doesn't correct him. He takes this as an encouraging sign.

What happens in the next few moments involves his hands somehow finding their way to her lower back, dipping into the curve of her spine with a touch that any other time would be tentative—borderline fearful—but she sighs right into the hollow of his throat and presses a thigh against his hip. His fingers spasm, gripping either side of her waist.

"I think—" she begins, haltingly. "I think I—or maybe _she_ —wants…this."

 _I want this._ She wants this. Ed's mind stutters a little over the word "want," and the definition of "this."

Winry sucks in air through her teeth.

"She is still here. I'm—uh…"

Her breath comes quicker as his hands trail up her; he's guided only by warmth and instinct. The open-backed dress she wears as Lust bares most of her spine.

His fingertips press every vertebrae, counting them up in a tactile quantification of what makes her real and warm and human against him. He tries to silently reassure her.

"Winry. What will help you?"

She doesn't answer, only clutches his shirt on either side of his ribs so hard he thinks she might rip it. She looks up at him, and the tip of her nose brushes the underside his chin. At first, he doesn't trust himself to look down.

"Ed."

She takes his chin, tipping his face down toward her with thumb and forefinger. His lips part.

That's all she says, his name. But it's enough for his heart to clatter a hectic rhythm against the inside of his ribcage. It's enough for him to look straight into her eyes, inches below his, and to feel her shaking exhale, so close to him, so close.

Her lips smell like cherries, and Ed knows that if he kisses her there's no turning back.

And he does it anyway.

: : :

He's kissed her before—is it a lifetime ago? It feels like it, back when he and Al were home in Resembool, and they were happy and together. Those were the kisses of children, all closed lips and embarrassed blushes and fitted in the solitary corners of the house, always scared of being caught by Al or Pinako, who had developed an annoying habit of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

He's kissed her before, but not like this.

: : :

Her mouth opens under his; he can never remember a kiss making him dizzy, but the ground beneath his feet seems to bow and sway as her tongue separates his lips. The hand that cups his chin reaches for his arms around her, and she takes one of his hands.

She brings it up, skimming his fingers over her ribs. Realizing where she's headed, Ed freezes.

She breaks the kiss, and his eyes can't seem to disconnect themselves from the wet, coral redness of her mouth. Through the ringing in his ears, he reads a single word.

"Please."

And over the strange, shimmering fabric that constitutes her outfit as Lust, she guides his hand over her chest. His fingers curl lightly over the curve of her.

He draws a nonsense shape with his thumb over the inner swell of it, barely grazing the fabric, butterfly touches. She hums.

Ed cups his fingers more firmly, watching in awestruck disbelief as she bites her lip and moans outright.

He leans toward her and kisses her. Desperately—because when she makes that sound again it has to be into his mouth, where he can taste it. And if he had the power to think clearly, Ed might find himself red-faced and clumsy over how much farther this has gone than anything they've ever reached before. But the broken, heaving breaths that push her softness into his hand, and the little noises that leave her mouth and catch under his tongue—these don't leave him any room for embarrassment.

She tips her lower body toward his; her thighs are warm and smooth, settling on either side of his hips. Her tongue presses between his teeth and Ed isn't sure if the sound he makes is from surprise or alarm or something altogether different.

She reaches down, grips his right hand at her waist, brings it lower. His fingers brush the thin hem of her dress, and his already racing pulse starts to pummel blindingly at the front of his throat. She moves her hand back up his forearm, tickling the hairs there, raising goosebumps.

He hooks his fingers under the hem of her short dress, pulls it up, higher, so he can feel the smooth curve of her lower hip, his thumb resting against the jutting bone that rocks into him.

"Yes," she says—it's into his mouth, and comes out more empty air than sound.

: : :

As Winry's fingers sink into his hair, catching on his ponytail and unraveling it to its loose and spilling length over his shoulders, Ed thinks that this isn't how he pictured this. Not at all.

Her hips press insistently against his, and his hand accidentally slides the bottom of her dress up higher. She uses her weight to push him more into the wall; his shoulders meet it with a muted thump that he hardly hears.

He does hear something else though: it's a whimper, it comes from him. Her teeth nip the skin below his ear and then her tongue is there, dragging over the sting.

She trails her nose over his jawline, breathing harder as he tugs the dress up—it's tight, he gets impatient. There's a metallic _hiss_ and a tearing sound, and suddenly the fabric has more give. Ed finds the even thinner, half-askew pair of underwear that separates his hand from…

Well, if he's being honest, it separates his hand from the most interesting thing he's imagined since the age of fourteen.

"Hurry," Winry demands, half-groaning, and arching forward. She tugs his hair, and his head knocks backward, into the wall. Tracks of fire follow her mouth as she sucks at his jawline, his shallow, racing pulse-point.

Her breast pushes deep into one of his palms, but his other hand presses on its own, sliding past her underwear. Her skin quivers; her fingers clutch his hair.

He feels her: warm, and damp. And very soft. Like the rest of her.

Ed makes use of the friction caused by her impatient movements. He flicks a finger up, watching her, noticing how her eyelids drop closed. The finger circles, she pivots her hips into him; her head falls to one side.

He tries random swirls, applying an incremental increase in pressure, and her mouth stutters out a soft sound that isn't words. Her thigh slides up higher, and she circles herself tantalizingly against him, and he jerks his hips forward with sudden arousal.

"Ah—!"

He pauses his finger, her eyes flutter open again. She's leaning into him, using her weight to keep his shoulders pushed into the wall, and it positions her as the one in control.

"So you're not fighting," she says, in the lilting, dripping voice of Lust. Her body still responds to him, but that voice is fanged.

 _Well, if it's a fight she wants—_

"Oh, I am," he growls.

: : :

She gasps as he pivots the two of them quickly, reversing their positions so she's the one pinned to the wall. He pushes a knee between her legs and leans forward, lipping and biting her collarbone. Her skin marbles with bruises under his mouth. He bares more of her shoulders, the dress's diaphanous fabric ripping like tissue.

Soon, she's bare from the waist up, and crying out hoarsely with every pull of his lips on her flesh. And he feels her hand on the zipper of his pants. He stops, sipping deep lungfuls of air that taste like dampness and heat and want.

Her hand doesn't move, pressing against the very evident stiffness of him. Then, her fingers curl. His breath all comes out in a _whoosh_.

She doesn't say anything, but pulls his belt away. Her fingers flick the zipper down quickly—quicker than he can choke words against her shoulder—and her hand is there, between his bare abdomen and his clothing. Ed can't believe how quickly she finds him and strokes him to full length.

Heat streaks down his spine, and there's that noise from him again: a naked, animal whine that turns his face every shade of red.

"Winry…uh—"

"I told you," she whispers, hot on his ear. "It's Lust."

A denial. But it trembles with uncertainty.

Ed lifts his head, ignoring her grip on him. He catches her parted lips in a kiss that is suddenly tender, coaxing: he searches the softness of her for the old Winry.

He pulls back, meeting her unfocused gaze. If anything, she looks confused—the kind of confusion that comes after waking up after a nightmare.

"No," he says, quietly. "I know that's not you. Come back."

Her lips tremble, and then—her grip tightens, and he feels himself _twitch_ in her hand. There's the bare suggestion of her nails against his sensitive flesh, and Ed's teeth clench.

: : :

He waits out the airless silence, letting an exhale creep through his nose. Her sharp fingers choke his erection.

"Well, I see that 'Fullmetal' isn't _just_ a reference to your lost alchemy," Lust quips. She runs her thumbnail in a series of steady sweeps that send a river of chills down his spine.

With a grunt, he reaches behind her knees to lift her up and pin her against the wall. She doesn't have time to react; her feet leave the ground, legs automatically locking around his hips, and her nails bite into his arousal.

Gripping her under one thigh, he reaches down to grab the hand that's in his pants. Her hold on him loosens in surprise. He yanks that arm up, pinning her wrist to the wall.

"What are you—" she gasps. The rest of the sentence gets lost as he seals his lips to her throat, sucking a wet, coin-sized mark below her ear.

She gives a shuddering moan, and pushes a hand against her mouth to stifle the noise. Ed smacks it away, trapping that wrist against the wall too.

"Don't bother," he says, in response to her wild look.

He feels a wolfish grin on his own face. She seems dazed, undone by sensory overload, and her eyes drift lazily over his mouth. She moistens her lips, and her wrists tremble under his hands.

Ed leans forward and their mouths connect again: open, messy, her lipstick smearing on the corners of his mouth and his chin. With nothing but his lower body holding her up, Winry's back slips down the wall; he lets go of one wrist to grab her ass and heft her back up, sliding the skirt of her torn dress well above her hips.

He holds her there, steadying her as she rocks into him, hard, desperately.

"I—will you—I need—"

The broken request tumbles from her lips between rough, sweaty kisses. He lets go of her other wrist and lifts her higher against him.

She reaches down to his undone fly, and there's no sharp bite of nails this time—just smooth, deft fingers working, tugging. At last, she manages to free his erection, and he groans with relief against her cheek.

She finishes hitching both her legs high around his hips. Ed feels her squirm, trying to work the rest of her clothing off, but he mutters "wait," and she does.

For a moment, they breathe from each other's mouths. Ed swallows.

A few seconds pass. Then Winry wriggles against him. She releases a sound that is something between a sigh and a sob. And he discovers that he cannot wait any longer.

He slides his hand up her thigh, tugging fruitlessly at her undergarments, and again out of nowhere there is again that metallic _hiss_.

The scrap of fabric flutters to the floor, inches from his toes, and Winry's sabre-thin nail retracts.

"Faster that way," she says, breathlessly.

: : :

He fits her—clumsy, and awkward, and unscientific—but he _fits_. His brain short-circuits, and she's hot, and quivering, and perfect around him, and it's all he can do to simply ask:

"Okay—?"

Winry's eyelids are tightly closed, squeezed shut in an expression that's unreadable as either bliss or pain. But at his question, they fly open. Her eyes lock on his.

Ed could nearly weep: it's his Winry. Nothing more, nor less than. She shines out at him: lake-blue, sky-bright.

She looks at him like she doesn't understand the question.

"Y-you. Are you…okay?" he tries again. At least his vocabulary hasn't abandoned him—most of it.

She's still silent, and a wrinkle between her eyebrows deepens. She shifts, adjusting herself around him, and even that slight movement causes him to shudder. Her hands come up under his shoulders, tangle in his hair.

"Yes."

His relief at hearing it is vastly, violently overwhelmed by the squeeze of her around him, and his hips shoot forward—up. She gives a broken sob, head falling back against the wall. Her hands clutch at his hair in a grip that's deliciously painful.

Her leverage against him pushes him in farther, and he's engulfed, _strangled_ by deep, velvet heat. Ed hears a low, urgent growl—realizes, in shock, that it's his own. He stills.

"Quit stalling…!" Winry begs. She arches, pressing her neck and shoulders against the wall, tipping forward to take more of him.

The thin cord of control he's hanging onto snaps in half.

Ed anchors both his arms firmly under her knees; he drives forward. A moan rips from her mouth before he muffles it with his own. Her arms wrap tight around his neck and she meets his short, deep thrusts with matching rolls of her hips.

Dimly, Ed notices that the wall creaks in rhythm with them. He hopes it will hold.

He slides a hand up to her breast, kneading its bare softness between his fingers; his other hand still grips her thigh, hard enough to bruise. She whimpers as his pace quickens, punishes, and the sound of her pleasure vibrates under his tongue.

Thrilling, white fire starts to encroach on the edges of his vision. Her nails rake his scalp; they clench in rhythm with each pulse, each new ecstatic height. The dilapidated wall complains at their mistreatment of it.

Ed feels her mouth tears away from his. Her voice rasps against his chin:

"I need—I need—"

One of her hands snakes its way between their bodies, and Ed realizes what she's doing.

"Wait," he hisses. He doesn't slow his pace, but takes his hand from her breast and reaches down. He finds the center of her; touching it triggers more of those half-uttered sounds, the language of her joy.

In a fracture of coherent thought, Ed considers that alchemy is a small loss compared to what his hands can do now—that the big talk he's always been prone to is, perhaps, less important than what he can manage with his mouth silently. As Winry's breath comes out high and quick on the trembling point of her orgasm, he feels his own release imminent, faster and louder than a steam engine.

Ed's teeth find her bare shoulder. She shudders violently, quaking around him and drawing him deeper, and it saps the last of him.

He finishes with a scream that muffles into her skin; his hips pump a few last shallow spasms. For several seconds he quivers; everything in his vision curtsies slightly sideways. His shoulder hits the wall as he tips toward it, boneless.

: : :

Winry unlocks her legs from around him, sliding a little down the wall as he lets her feet touch the ground again. Both her hands rub gentle circles into his neck, then reach up into his hair, massaging his scalp.

He comes back down, dizzy; everything's a little wobbly around the edges. His forehead still rests on her shoulder.

"Hi," he mutters at last, into her collarbone.

She gives a small laugh, still cradling his head against her.

"Hi, Ed."

She combs her fingers one last time through his hair, then brings her hands to cup his cheeks. Tipping his head up from where it's bowed on her shoulder, she softly kisses the tip of his nose.

Ed sighs, letting his eyelids flutter closed. His mind feels delightfully blank, but something starts to nag him. Something important—

His eyes fly open again. On the inside of her left wrist, still very visible against her flushed skin, the ouroboros whispers its darkness.

Winry follows his gaze; she flinches.

"I'm sorry—" she begins. Ed's teeth grind together, and blind fury intrudes on the aftermath of his bliss.

"Don't apologize, Winry, _don't_."

"Ed. Let me. Please."

She worries her lower lip between her teeth, shutting her eyes. He doesn't want to know whether she's reliving a memory, or just figuring out how to talk to him.

"I made her come here—Lust," she says, quietly. Her eyes are still closed. "The people who— _took_ me—thought that she would be able to lure you in. But…I think they may have made a mistake somewhere, because I never really became…whatever it was they wanted."

Ed's throat constricts.

"What did they—?"

"I don't really know what they did to me, Ed. I've never understood alchemy all that well. But they definitely didn't want it to be _me_ in here, after they were done."

Her voice isn't angry—it's just broken-sounding. He thinks about asking her where they were keeping her, just so he can find the place and teach whoever's there a few white-knuckled lessons on his version of justice.

But he doesn't interrupt. Winry keeps talking; her voice doesn't shake. She's been bottling the words up like poison.

"They pushed a lot of needles into me—and told me I'd feel better when they could turn me into Lust—and then finally, _finally_ —they thought they had done it. They freed me—and told me that, after all they had done for me, I would work for them."

At last, Winry's eyes open. Ed nearly takes a step back at the hatred simmering there. Underneath her calmly rendered account of her experience, there's a vein of loathing that wasn't there before. She continues:

"Early on, though, one of their scientists said something that stuck with me. He said they were just… _amplifying_ whatever was already inside me. So, whatever they were trying to get from me, it had to be there in the first place. And—and I don't think they really understood h-how much I—"

She clears her throat. The small noise is tight, painful, and Ed can't help himself.

He pulls her toward him, cradling her head against his shoulder in a gesture that's almost parental in its protectiveness. She sniffs.

"—How much I really wanted to come back. To you."

: : :

They share a silent car on the train back to Western Command. Silent, because Ed can't seem to say anything worth hearing, and because Winry is sleeping like the dead. Her head bumps gently against his shoulder with every jostle of the tracks.

Here's what he can gather: after she was kidnapped, time and detail became hazy. It's cost her so much strength and stability just to be able to tell him what she already has. As long as her soul hosts the power and burden of a homunculus, she may not be able to live normally.

 _Not for a while,_ he tells himself. But he, more than anyone, understands the importance of regaining one's original body.

"I don't want to put anyone in danger," she had objected, watching him finish purchasing their train tickets. He answered her without turning around.

"Then I'll take all the responsibility."

"That's not any better."

He had snatched the tickets from the desk and whipped around to face her, his lips flattening with frustration.

"What—are you gonna run? Because I'm still way faster than you."

Winry's eyes widened, her mouth had formed an "O."

Then she smiled, looking down at the long, flopping sleeves of the coat he's given her. She wears a patched-together assortment of his travel garments to replace the ridiculous ripped dress that stays in the hotel room. She had tugged the hems of the coat's sleeves farther down, hiding the round stain on her wrist.

"I guess not."

Ed sighs. All this worry—even after he's explained that knowing exactly what the New Academy is _doing_ with their victims will be a huge step forward for Mustang's team. But he understands where she's coming from. Someone will eventually come looking for her.

The train sways around a turn, and Ed glances at his watch. It's 2:30 a.m. In about four hours, he'll be able to put in a call to the Western Command office and give one of his official-unofficial updates. He'll also be placing a long-overdue call to a yellow house in Resembool.

But right now, Ed doesn't think about that. Winry's hair tickles his neck, and he leans into it, half-subconsciously. She smells like an intoxicating mixture of grass and his own scent. There's a hint of automail oil there too—even now, after all these months.

The song of the rails, and of Winry's deep, slow breathing, seduces him into a gentle doze. They've been in danger before; it's nothing new. To him, battle comes as easily as blinking.

But as long as that song lives in his ears, he doesn't mind shutting his eyes.

* * *

 **A/N #2: I don't even know what else to say about this except that it exists and it's all my fault.**


End file.
